Rain
by unfold
Summary: Future Literati sort of. Jess' mom dies, the effects of this. 'Bite your lip, hope for the best.' Reviews are greatly appreciated.


**A/N: I don't know why I have this need to surround Jess with death, but it happens that way. I gave you a fluffy piece and now I bring the opposite of fluff. For the purposes of this story, there is no TJ. Simply because I did not feel like dealing with him in general. Read on.

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Rain, rain, rain. It comes in big drops. It swims across the window like fish in an ocean. Golden leaves stuck to the windshield, stuck to the wipers, dragged across the glass. The heat from the vent dries out your eyes, makes them sting. Close them tightly, feel the burn, hope it passes. Because the windows keep fogging up. Well, either way your vision is impaired. The volume is up loud, the bass distorts your rear view mirror. You think the song is good, but you're almost to your destination and it's six minutes long. You think you should stay in the car for a while, wait for it to finish, at least hear the good part, the part where he sings, "It'll fall just like you said." But, you look over at him and think that line will hurt him. Think he'll want to get it over with and won't want to prolong it to stay in the car, waiting for a stupid line in a stupid song.

Rain, rain, rain. You hear it, mostly beneath your tires, but also as it smacks against the car. Your foot eases off the accelerator, slowing down with the reduced visibility. He hasn't said a word, silently ashes his cigarette onto the floor of the car. You don't say a word either. Not even when he lights another cigarette before his current one is done. Not even when he leans his head back, closes his eyes, blows the smoke slowly at the roof of the car. Not even when you see a drop of rain in the creases of his closed eyes. Not rain, you remind yourself. The window's closed. You can't breathe.

Rain, rain, rain. Louder now that he has reached over to turn down the stereo. He shifts in his seat, the rustle of fabric against upholstery. Black suit against gray fabric. He swallows and you can see this out of the corner of your eye, the up and down of his Adam's apple. You bite your lip and hope for the best. His gravelly voice asks you if you can pull the car over. He's going to be sick, he says. He's going to be sick, he says it again, panicked. Pull the car onto the shoulder, watch as he opens the door, bends over and lets his insides out. Unbuckle your seatbelt and pretend that you're there for him, that this doesn't make your own stomach turn, place a hand on his back and wait. Bite your lip, hope for the best.

Rain, rain, rain. It's in his hair now, the half that was sticking out of the car. It's on the shoulders of his suit as you reach up to brush it off. He breathes heavily. Apologizes quietly with his eyes closed, a look of pain still on his face. You understand. You get it. You try to reassure him. It's okay. It's going to be okay. This is the worst part. This'll be done soon. Dryly he says, Yeah, soon. He opens the glove compartment. Fuck, no napkins. He wipes the corner of his mouth with his sleeve, shrugs and tells you, It's okay. Let's go.

Rain, rain, rain. A huge umbrella with the Canadian flag on it. Red and white. A Maple leaf. The only umbrella you could find that morning. It stands out in the sea of black umbrellas. The sea of black, period. You almost slip on the grass as you walk through the cemetery and when he reaches for your hand, you think it shouldn't be him steadying you. It should be the other way around. But, he's not wearing heels. You hold his hand tightly. No, this time it really is the other way around. He holds yours, his fingers gripping yours so tightly that it hurts. You simply lean into him, to let him know you're there. And it occurs to you that you haven't kissed him (or the other way around, for that matter) since he found out. Since 5:08 PM, two weeks ago. Since you heard him say into the phone, "No. Fuck. How? Fuck." Since he hung up and looked at you, shrugging and whispering, "Liz killed herself." Sine you heard him crying in the bathroom at three in the morning.

Rain, rain, rain. There are drops of it scattered all over the black finish of the casket. Scattered on the petals of the roses you saw your mother place gently on the casket when they closed the lid. Luke stands next to him and you notice the glances they keep exchanging. You notice Luke's hand on his shoulder and the smile and the way he looks down at his shoes until the hand is removed, until he walks away. With his back turned to you, you stand there helpless and motionless. Bite your lip, hope for the best. He turns around, his eyes dart towards the casket. You get it. You walk away, leave him alone with her for a moment.

Rain, rain, rain. It is slowing as you stand with your mother and your step father. You are watching him as he stands before the casket, hands in his pocket. You are squinting because the white of the clouds is too bright. You pull your coat tightly around you and feel your mother's hand on your back, going around your waist, pulling you closer to her. The familiarity of it startles you and your breath turns shaky. He hasn't moved and this scares you. You whisper anxiously, Is he grieving properly? I don't know. The question is met with silence and you turn to the woman next to you. She stares at the same man and says, He's going to do this his way. Like everything. And you smile against the warm fabric of her coat, breathing in her scent, and agreeing, Yeah. I guess so. With her lips against your forehead, she leaves you.

Rain, rain, rain. Only it's gone now and the clouds are slowly parting. A few stray beams of sunlight make their way through the cracks and reflect harshly off of casket's silver handles. You approach him with a soft announcement of your presence. When his face turns to you, it is warm with sun. He reaches out for you and you let him hold you, his breathing steady, his arms warm. He lets you go and gives the casket another sad glance before turning from it. His eyes are saying, Thank you. And, I'm sorry. And, I love you. Not for you, you chide yourself. This is not for you. And you know that even the kiss on your temple is not for you. Bite your lip, hope for the best.


End file.
